So you had a bad day...that's actually good

My daughter Chloe had a bad day recently.

And I didn't feel that bad about it. Why? Because she's the type of person for whom there simply aren't going to be a lot of bad days in store. She's talented, smart and charismatic, and those three factors combined tend to make for a relatively easy life.

Well, I shouldn't say I didn't feel bad about it. You always feel bad when things don't go well for your kids. In Chloe's case, in one 12-hour period she found out she lost the election for class vice president, and her indoor soccer team had its undefeated season ruined by a loss in the championship game. Disappointing, but not end-of-the-world stuff.

Still, I would imagine that 98% or more of Chloe's remaining days on the earth will safely be placed into the "good" category. And I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about that.

Because really, it's the tough times that build our character, don't you think? You want your kids to go through the tough times so that they'll be able to deal with whatever life throws at them.

A friend of mine (whose Forgetful Genius blog I plugged here a couple of days ago) recently shared a quote by the author Robert Heinlein that I liked a lot. Heinlein said, "Do not handicap your children by making their lives easy."

This has, I have to admit, been the exact opposite of my parenting philosophy for many years. Too many times, I've taken the easy way out and made my kids' lives a little too comfortable.

We do that with good intentions, of course, but the results usually aren't good. Did they make a mess in the kitchen and now they're at school? My inclination is to just clean it up myself and try to remember to say something to them later. The better thing to do would probably be to live with the dirty kitchen all day until they get home and then make them clean it up. Otherwise, how are they going to learn?

The New Testament has much to say on the benefits of suffering and trials. But there's a part of me that would rather have that suffering and those trials happen to me and not to my children. And again I have to ask myself, how else are they going to learn?

It's like the child whose parents protect him from exposure to every possible infection and disease. He may not get sick in the short run, but over the long term, how is he ever going to build any immunity?

I like it better when Chloe is happy and successful. Which as I said is most of the time. My heart literally hurts when she's sad. But sometimes, I guess, if you truly love your kids, you're going to have to share that pain with them.

I'm digging classical music and you're probably not

Over the last year or so, I've gotten heavily into classical music. To the point that it's almost the only music I listen to anymore.

This, you'll readily agree, puts me into a distinct minority. Classical music fans comprise a very small percentage of the general public, which is why your local classical music station has − at any given moment − a total of 17 listeners.

But that's part of the attraction of classical musical to some people, isn't it? The exclusivity. The elitism. The feeling that, "While you barbarians are out downloading Miley Cyrus songs, I'm soaking in the best that Western Civilization has to offer."

I would love to take that same snobbish attitude, but I'm not nearly sophisticated enough. I still cheer loudly when two guys start punching each other in the face at a hockey game. And I regularly scratch myself in ways that are, generally speaking, unacceptable in polite company.

Yet I love me some classical music. Or at least I love the stuff I've been able to absorb so far. I'm very much into the long symphonic works: Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Mendelssohn. Those are my Big Three these days.

But I still have a long way to go to fully appreciate the genre. Opera and I don't really get along much (yet). And the modern composers utterly baffle me (I have Berg's Violin Concerto on CD, and I'm not kidding when I tell you it literally frightens me. Either that man was crazy or I'm just a big wuss. Or both.)

Because that's the thing about classical music that turns a lot of people off, and I get it: It takes effort to understand it. This isn't a three-minute pop song with a catchy, repetitive hook that you can listen to once and memorize. It's dense stuff packed with emotion, with ideas, and with substance. You can listen to it again and again and still not catch everything the composer is trying to convey.

I think that's why I like it. One of my favorite pieces is Tchaikovsky's Symphony #6, also known as the "Pathétique." It's 46 minutes of music that will turn you inside out as it pulls you through the emotional wringer. Nine days after the work premiered in 1893, Tchaikovsky committed suicide. Whatever anguish he was feeling as he wrote the 6th symphony is apparent in the music.

Every time I listen to the Pathétique, it's like I'm hearing something brand new. It's so layered, so full of different elements, that I'm not sure I'll ever grasp the whole thing.

Do you know how I know I've grown up? And that I'm alive? Because I almost cry when I listen to the Pathétique. Really. I tear up in the middle of the first movement every time I hear it. And the fourth movement? The one described as "adagio lamentoso," or "played slowly in a mournful, grieving manner?" Well, if Tchaikovsky didn't know the end of his life was near when he wrote that movement, and if he wasn't trying to convey that feeling to the listener, then it's the biggest coincidence in the history of art.

I love when music (or anything else, for that matter) makes me feel that way. I love that it resonates with me. And I want other people to have the same experience. But there's a cultural bias against classical music that leaves most folks unable to commit the time and effort needed to "get" it. And that's a shame, because you have to believe me when I tell you you're missing something uplifting and even life-changing.

Not that I still don't like a good hockey fight every now and again. It's just that the next time I watch one, I'll be hearing a Wagner soundtrack in my head as one guy breaks another guy's nose. Beautiful.

Routine, tradition and the Mayberry Experience

Sometime earlier this month − we're not sure of the exact date − my mom celebrated 50 years of living in the same house. That's a long time. Long enough, in fact, that she's on her 10th U.S. president since she and her family carted all of their stuff through the front door for what would turn out to be a multi-decade stay.

This is not, you understand, at all uncommon in Wickliffe, Ohio, the city where I grew up and where I still live. People move here and they stay here. It's a nice community. Different than it used to be in many ways, but still a very nice community.

Quite often you read obituaries of people who have passed away at 80 or 90 years of age and are characterized as "a lifelong resident of Wickliffe." More often than not, these people have a vowel at the end of their last name denoting Italian or Eastern European ancestry. Mine is one of the few WASP families allowed to live here. (I kid, I kid!)

Not that everyone stays in Wickliffe, of course, but real estate agents will tell you they're always stunned by the number of people who move away from our town in their 20s and decide to move back in their 30s or 40s. And even if they don't actually live here, they still hang out with childhood friends in what used to be called The Geranium City. I have no idea why they called it that, since I never noticed an overabundance of geraniums. But I guess you have to be known for something.

Speaking of which, we do have a few somethings for which to be known. One is that Wickliffe is the hometown of Jayne Kennedy, a former host of CBS' "NFL Today" program, Miss Ohio winner in 1970, and a Miss USA semifinalist that same year. We also lay claim to Terry Mulroy, a writer and producer on such TV shows as "The Drew Carey Show" and "According to Jim."

But for the most part, we're a pretty standard, blue-collar, Northeast Ohio community. We have about as many bars as churches, and eight more parks than grocery stores (eight parks, zero grocery stores). Good people live here.

I often wonder whether it has been a good idea for me to spend my whole life in the same city. There's a lot to be said for the sense of love and loyalty I feel for good old Wickburg, but there's also the very real possibility that my perspective is unnecessarily limited by living 43 years in the same four square miles.

I have traveled, of course. Used to do it quite a bit when I worked for a public relations agency. I've set foot in six other countries and have visited something like 35 of the 50 states. So it's not like I never stray from the 44092.

But I am unavoidably colored by living in and among so many people I've known since the Nixon Administration. We have our own language. We all talk about the same things. We had the same teachers. That's both good and bad...and I can't decide whether there's more good or more bad to it.

Still, I'm comfortable here. It's familiar and safe. And that desire for familiarity and safety extends to the way I spend my days. Whether at work or at home, I tend to follow set routines, which I think make me feel more in control.

Doctors say you should vary your experiences and change up your habits in order to keep your mind sharp. If that's true, then my mind is mush.

But would I be any smarter, any more insightful, or at all a better person if I had moved to, say, Chicago? Or Phoenix? Or Beijing? Maybe. I don't know. All I know is, I like it here. And there's no prospect of us leaving any time before Jack graduates from high school in 2024.

That's the year I'll turn 55. By then I'll be so set in my ways, you won't be able to get me to move three houses down the street, let alone to another town.

But by gosh, my neighbors and I will still be talking about life with Mrs. Lucci as our teacher in first grade...


(By the way, gotta give a shout out to an old friend − yes, a Wickliffe native − for inspiring the topic of today's post. You really need to check out her excellent blog, The Forgetful Genius. Trust me, it's worth your time.)

I can tell you where our toolbox is, but that's about it

There are two reasons we can't have nice things in our house (three, if you count the fact that we're all the domestic equivalents of bulls in a china shop and we break new items within seconds of obtaining them):

(1) When expensive nice things break, you need to hire a professional to fix them. And I don't have a job. Which means that unless the repair person is willing to accept empty coffee creamer bottles as legal tender, I can't afford their services.

(2) When less-expensive nice things break, you're expected to fix them yourself. I can't fix anything. The last household item I could reliably fix was a personal computer, and that was back when they all had monochromatic green screens and were powered by DOS.

People who know me know about my mechanical incompetence. It's part of my mystique, along with a weird competitive streak and my penchant for talking freely and innocently about inappropriate subjects, as if I were one of those brain injury victims who have lost the use of that part of your brain that's supposed to filter out socially unacceptable topics of conversation.

People who know me also know I rely a lot on my wife in matters involving tools, and even more so on my saint of a father-in-law.

Please understand, this is not a case of me simply being too lazy to learn. I've tried. Many times. But I just don't see the way things fit together like most other people do.

I still try to at least talk a good game, though. Let's say, for instance, that our toaster oven is suddenly on the fritz. My first thought is how much a new toaster oven costs at Best Buy. My wife, on the other hand, will (as she often says) first try to "assess the situation." Which just means she'll give the toaster oven a once over to try and diagnose the problem.

Here's how that conversation usually goes:

ME: The toaster oven is broken.

TERRY: Yeah, I know. I opened it up. The bitzer valve is filibustered.

ME: What?

TERRY: The bitzer valve. It's filibustered.

ME: Oh, I thought that's what you said. That was my first thought, too: The bitzer valve is definitely filibustered.

TERRY: No, it's not.

ME: Sure it is. You just said so.

TERRY: I made that whole thing up. There's no such thing as a bitzer valve.

ME (flustered): Well...uh...that just shows how much you know! I've had a surprising amount of experience with toaster ovens, and especially with bitzer valves, and that is easily one of the most filibustered bitzer valves I've ever seen.

Of course, it doesn't matter whether the bitzer valve is a real toaster oven part or not. And it certainly doesn't matter whether it's filibustered, because I wouldn't begin to know the difference. I'm already mentally taking the money for a new toaster oven out of my Starbucks Fund and heroically sacrificing a few future frappuccinos just so the family can continue to meet its monthly quota of toasted bagels.

Being mechanically inept is not only an expensive way to go through life, it's also a little embarrassing. Guys, as you know, attend a special school when they reach the age of 10. At this school, they're taught three important skills: how to spit, how to ignore household dirt, and how to fix stuff.

Or at least I assume this is how it works, and that I for whatever reason was not asked to attend this school. I don't spit well, I hate a dirty house, and I most definitely never got the memo on fixing things.

The result is that I have to rely on other people to fix my stuff. And I end up having conversations with professional repair guys in which they talk about bitzer valves and such, and my only reaction (in the name of saving face and trying to preserve some Guy Dignity) is to nod thoughtfully and in such a way as to convey the message, "Yes, that's exactly what I thought was the problem. I would fix it myself, of course, but I have to go and remount the engine on my '72 Mustang. So why don't I just go ahead and give you several pounds of paper money and have you fix it for me?"

The repair guy, who instantly knows I have no idea what I'm talking about but is a nice person who understands the Guy Code, will readily agree to this arrangement and will go along with the facade of me being a real Tool Man because he knows it makes me feel better.

And given the fact that I've already financed two of his kids' college educations with various repair jobs, it's actually in his best interest to play along.

Allowing yourself to be bored is hard. Really hard.

I'm in the middle of reading "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff...And It's All Small Stuff." This is a book that, a few months ago, I would have dismissed as the flagship title in the fluffy/feel-good genre of popular literature. But I have to tell you, I can't recommend it enough.

Or at least, I can't recommend it enough if you're like me. You qualify for "like me" status if you're too self-critical, allow yourself to be bothered by ultimately unimportant things, and have a very hard time relaxing because you feel guilty that you're not "accomplishing" anything. If that sounds familiar, you'll find that "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" was written specifically for you.

I could write a series of blog posts on the insights I've gained from this book, which is really just a series of extremely short (1-2 pages) essays on various topics that relate to the overall theme. That theme, if I had to put it into words, would be becoming a more peaceful, caring and ultimately happy person.

Not that I'm not happy, mind you. I think I'm generally a pretty positive guy. But I do tend to be a little uptight and to worry about things that simply aren't worth worrying about.

By the way, at the same time I'm reading this book, I'm also making my way through "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People." It's as if these two books were meant to be read together. That's how well they complement each other.

Anyway, the one chapter of "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" that has really resonated with me is section #18: "Allow Yourself to Be Bored." I am not good at doing this. At all. But the first sentence hits home:

"For many of us, our lives are so filled with stimuli, not to mention responsibilities, that it's almost impossible for us to sit still and do nothing, much less relax − even for a few minutes."

Yes, exactly. I'm always "doing." Very rarely am I just "being." And I think we were created with a need to just "be" for at least a little bit every day. The author of "Small Stuff," Richard Carlson, recounts a conversation he had with a therapist who suggested that if we allow ourselves to bored, even for an hour or less, the feelings of boredom "will be replaced with feelings of peace. And after a little practice, you'll learn to relax."

As Terry will attest, I don't relax. I don't even know how to relax. But this idea of learning how to do it and practicing "boredom" is one that has taken root in me. I'm not good at it yet, but I'm trying.

The first few times I just stood in front of a window looking into our backyard, I hated it. I thought, "This is weird. And pointless. I could be emptying the dishwasher, changing out the laundry, working on a freelance article, reading my Bible. Anything but...this."

But I've done it a few times now, and that therapist is right: Slowly but surely, I'm starting to enjoy it. I look out the window and stare at a squirrel, or a tree, or at nothing at all. I notice my thoughts a little more closely. I try and understand what "living in the moment" is really supposed to mean, and I feel this inner calm that seems to have been absent for years.

I have a long way to go, of course. I still get a little anxious about getting back to my to-do list, and I can't relax for any significant length of time just yet. But I'm getting better. And that right there is enough to keep me at it.

It took Mr. Carlson some time to get the hang of it, too. But he ends section #18 this way:

"Now, when either of my two children says to me, 'Daddy, I'm bored,' I respond by saying, 'Great, be bored for awhile. It's good for you.'"

And it turns out he's right. I had no idea.

Friday's random thoughts

(1) My dad used to tell a joke that involved Native American women and, I think, Lewis and Clark for which the punchline was "the Indian-Nipple-Less 500." This is essentially all you need to know about my father's particular brand of humor.

(2) Incidentally, thought #1 is also all you need to know about why I'll probably never write a book. Books require thought, planning and structure. I have ADHD of the computer keyboard and am utterly incapable of spending more than about four sentences on a single thought. And this is the fourth sentence on this particular thought.

(3) Having a college freshman daughter is interesting in many ways, not the least of which is that I feel obliged suddenly to treat her like an adult. Which I should, of course, seeing that she'll be 19 in a couple of days. She comes and goes as she pleases in her own little car. She works a job. She responsibly attends classes and keeps up with her schoolwork. All very adult things. Then I find myself having to instruct her to hand wash  the salad bowl she takes to work because the dishwasher is − fairly obviously, in my eyes − full. And then dry it. And then put it away. And suddenly she seems 8 years old to me again (even though this is something many adults do). And those little moments, which two years ago would have frustrated me, actually make me smile now.

(4) I still don't fold a lot of laundry in our house (consistent with this blog post from last April). I have no real desire to up my folding output, either. But when I do fold a basket of clothes, do you know what the most satisfying thing to fold is? Bras. Really. Just go cup-in-cup and, boom, that baby is ready to be put away! It's a good feeling.

(5) Have we talked about my love for The Flintstones here before? I can't remember. Let me consult Google and see....OK, Google suggests the 'Stones have been mentioned here before, but never actually dwelt upon. I won't dwell upon them now, other than to point out a fairly consistent injustice that always bothered me. Remember those times when Fred, Wilma, Barney and Betty would go out for a little night on the town? They did it more than once. And whenever they did, the boys would change out of their daily caveman outfits and put on tuxes and tails. I thought they looked nice. And what would the wives do to get ready to go out? Put on earrings. Really, that was it. They just put on earrings. Same dresses as normal, same hairdos. Just a pair of dangly earrings and nothing else. C'mon, Wilma and Betty! At least try a little.

50 Shades of Java

Over the past two years, I've developed a deep addiction to caffeine in the form of coffee. And I haven't been reluctant to discuss it.

If anything, unemployment has deepened that addiction. I average five cups a day, which isn't that much compared with a lot of people but is still pretty hefty when the majority of the coffee comes from your Keurig machine.

I love my Keurig. I received it as a gift last Father's Day, and it has undergone high levels of use every day since. The problem, of course, is that getting coffee from individual K-Cups is not nearly as economically efficient as making a pot or two with a conventional coffee maker.

But I love the K-Cup coffee. I mean, I love it. That first cup every morning is heavenly. I'll brew it up and then just stare at it for a minute. The deep, rich, dark brown color. The way it fills out my soccer ball mug (I must drink my coffee from the soccer ball mug. I don't know why.) It's beautiful, and it turns an even nicer carmel-y color when I add in the half and half or Carnation creamer.

Then comes the smelling. Oh my, the smelling. That first whiff. My knees buckle a little. I'm not kidding. Sometimes the first smell is so awesome that I start to lose consciousness for a second. That can't be normal, can it? No, probably not. But I really, really like the way it smells.

(NOTE: At this point, you're probably worried about me. And I understand and appreciate your concern. But don't judge me. Just leave me and my hot beverage alone.)

The next step, as you might imagine, is the tasting. The thing with me in this department is that I have the least discriminating palette ever. I like all kinds of coffee. Do you understand? ALL. KINDS. OF. COFFEE. Light, dark, Brazilian, Colombian, bold, blonde, whatever. Doesn't matter. My only criterion is: Does it have coffee taste? Yes? Then that's good enough for me!

The Keurig manual advises you to try different kinds of K-Cups until you discover your own personal flavor. I've already discovered my personal flavor. It's "coffee." I'm like a cheap caffeine floozy.

I'll drink it black if I have to (my daughter Chloe drinks it that way a lot), but I prefer the creamer. Half and half offers the best flavor, but it also costs me one Weight Watchers point, whereas the low-fat Carnation is point-free. I drink enough coffee that those points accumulate quickly over the course of the day, so I'll split time equally between the two creamer agents.

I also plan out my coffee drinking. After I down the first cup, I wonder how soon before I can have a second cup without looking like a junkie. And then I'll realize that no one is watching me, so I'll brew up cup #2 to take with me to the computer to start the day's job hunting and/or freelance writing activities.

Cup #3 can sometimes wait until lunch, but it's usually closer to 11 a.m. It helps me bridge the gap until the mid-day meal, which is a function of coffee I've come to appreciate as I've lost weight. It really does a nice job of keeping you feeling full so that you don't get too hungry. Not getting hungry means I don't eat as much. Not eating as much means I lose weight. Losing weight means I'm more healthy. Hence, coffee = medicine. I don't think that's too much of a leap to make.

Cup #4 generally happens around 2 p.m., which is also when my wife has a scheduled coffee dose (though for her it's probably not quite her fourth of the day). This gives us a little time together to talk and review how the day is going. Thus, coffee is not only medicine, it is also a marital aid. (I seriously cannot believe I just used that phrase.)

Cup #5 happens a little before dinner. Again, it's a nice bridge before the last meal of the day, hunger-wise, but it also helps keep my attention on whatever work I'm doing. So in addition to medicine and, ahem, marital aid, coffee also supports my career. I'm telling you, it's like a miracle drink!

If there's going to be a cup #6, it is decaf and it happens somewhere in the 7 to 9 p.m. range. I always tell people that caffeine doesn't keep me awake at night, but I'm honestly not 100% convinced of that, so I hedge my bets a little by making #6 of the low-octane variety. Doesn't matter to me, really, since it still has the same great smell, taste, temperature, etc.

Sometime later, Terry and I will crawl into bed and I'll give a little sigh of contentment. Usually I'll look back proudly on whatever I was able to accomplish that day, and slowly I'll drift off to sleep for the proverbial long winter's nap.

And the best part is, it's only eight more hours until cup #1...

Bringing back the iPod shuffle

On two previous occasions, we played the iPod shuffle game on this blog (here and here). The idea, as you may recall, is to put your iPod or other MP3 device − we're not Apple-specific here at They Still Call Me Daddy − on "shuffle" mode and post the first five songs that pop up, no matter what they are.

I'll give you my list here, and you're welcome to offer up yours in the comments below. Here goes:

Scott's iPod shuffle results - 3/20/13

(1) David Francey - "Red-Winged Blackbird"
I love me some David Francey. He's a Canadian folk singer-songwriter who looks like he should be the guy who comes over and remodels your kitchen. And in fact he DID used to be a carpenter/laborer. I highly recommend his stuff.

(2) Sting - "St. Augustine in Hell"
Have I told you guys about the time I met Sting? I can't remember if I've relayed that story here. I probably have. Two or three times. I forget these things. Anyway, Sting is my all-time favorite. I've seen him play live nine times in 25 years. This song isn't among my top Sting tunes, but it's enjoyable.

(3) The Police - "Can't Stand Losing You"
Speaking of Sting...One of his better songs with The Police. I think the BBC once banned it because it dealt with the topic of suicide. But that was more than 30 years ago. No one would even think twice about the subject today.

(4) Sheila E. - "The Glamorous Life"
Yay, a woman! Sheila E. is extremely talented. And she's still out there making music. She was in Cleveland a few months ago with Dave Koz's band, and I'm sure she sang this, her signature tune.

(5) Quarterflash - "Harden My Heart"
Yay, another woman! Well, the lead singer/sax player in Quarterflash, Rindy Ross, is a woman. Always liked the tenor sax part she plays in this song. As I understand it, Quarterflash is still going strong, but they'll forever be filed under "One-Hit Wonders" on the strength of this little ditty, which hit #3 on the Billboard charts back in 1982.

Five first names I wouldn't mind having

I like my first name. Always have. But if I had to change it, here are five alternatives I wouldn't mind:

(1) BRUCE: Seems like a solid, manly name. Maybe because it reminds me of Brut aftershave, a bottle of which could often be found in our house when I was growing up in the 70s. The bottle was green plastic, which probably spoke to the quality of the product inside, but I thought it smelled nice. And some bottles of Brut came with a cool silver medallion. I would wear the Brut medallion today if given the chance.

(2) TIM: Tims are good people. You don't run across a lot of annoying Tims. And if you do, they're most likely a "Timothy." Big difference. (NOTE: In no way am I implying that guys named "Timothy" are necessarily annoying. Just some of them. If you're named Timothy and you're reading this blog, you're probably not annoying.)

(3) DAVE: The Tim Rule applies here, too. I have good associations with the name Dave. Like Dave Matthews, for instance. Seems like a good guy. Someone you'd want to hang out with. Or my brother-in-law Dave. He's a good guy. Or former Cleveland Indians manager Dave Garcia, who according to Wikipedia is 92 years old and still going strong. Apparently Daves live a long time, which is a plus.

(4) HANK: A dark horse candidate. I used to associate Hanks with people missing most of their teeth. But then the TV show "Royal Pains" came along, and now I think Hank is kind of hip. Still, it's hard to separate "Hank" from Hank Williams, and it remains my go-to generic hick name. But it's still an up-and-comer. (By the way, have you noticed so far that all of these are short, one-syllable names? So is "Scott." I'm just lazy enough to want a first name that doesn't require a great deal of effort when writing it out. Let's see if #5 bucks the trend...)

(5) KAI: Not only did we stick with the one-syllable pattern, we actually went back to the three-letter first name. "Kai" is a cool name. It's actually a relatively common name in several different cultures, most notably in Finland. I associate "Kai" with Kai Haaskivi, a Finn who played professional indoor soccer here in Cleveland back in the 80s and early 90s. "Kai" also means "probably" in Finnish, which is fitting because I would "probably" be the coolest person on the planet if my name was Kai.

HONORABLE MENTION - D.J.: My dad wanted to name me D.J. As he explained it, it wouldn't have stood for anything. Just the letters "D" and "J." I think I would have liked that, but he was overruled by my mom. And as we've mentioned before, the pregnant woman always gets veto power over name suggestions. It's OK, Mom. I really do like Scott...

The frightening association between left-handedness and a depressing early death

(A QUICK NOTE: It's my wife Terry's birthday today. She is now an age somewhere between 43 and 45. She is also very pretty and very awesome, so happy birthday, hon!)

(ANOTHER QUICK NOTE: At the end of today's post is a request for a quick favor on behalf of my awesome next-door neighbor, Chris Warneka. He's a great kid, and with your help he can earn a well-deserved scholarship to the University of Dayton. Go Flyers!)


I am left-handed, the only one of the seven people in my house who holds that distinction. And it's not so much a "distinction" as it is a "cause for forcible reeducation and possible persecution" in certain authoritarian countries.

This is true. According to skeptoid.com, while 8 to 10% of the world's population is left-handed, there are some nations in which the rate is much lower because kids there are, let's say, highly encouraged to shed this particular trait. The rate of left-handedness is supposedly only 3.5% in China, 2.5% in Mexico, and a stunning 0.7% in Japan.

You know what else skeptoid.com reports about lefties that really scares me? This little tidbit, which I'll quote verbatim (Wait, before I do that, is the phrase "quote verbatim" redundant? I think it is. I mean, if you quote someone non-verbatim, then you're just paraphrasing and not quoting, right? Yeah, I probably should have just said "which I'll quote here," or "which I'll present to you verbatim." Sorry, but stuff like this bugs me.)

Anyway, here's the thing from skeptoid.com that scares me:

"...but what's really intriguing is that left-handers are found less often in older age groups. About 15% of 10-year-old children are left-handed, and this percentage steadily declines as people grow older. By the age of 90, there are virtually no left-handers left in the population. Women tend to live longer than men anyway; but when you add handedness, the difference becomes truly startling. According to a famous article published in 1991 in Psychological Bulletin, right-handed women have a life expectancy of around 77, but left-handed men only live to about 62. Conversely, left-handed women and right-handed men have nearly identical life expectancies, of right around 72. Overall, right-handers live 9 years longer than left-handers!"

Um, what? How come I've lived 43 years on this planet and only just now came across this particular bit of information? And what's worse, no one seems to know exactly why this is. I have two theories of my own:

THEORY #1: Right-Handers Are Killing Off Left-Handers
I would not put this past you right-handed people. Don't think we don't see your jealous stares. You want to be like us, but nature has not blessed you in the same way (well, other than the life expectancy thing). Lefties are disproportionately represented in such cool occupations as musicians, architects and artists. We're naturally awesome and you resent it.

THEORY #2: Left-Handers Are Dying Of Ink Poisoning
My fellow lefties know what I'm talking about. When you're left-handed and you write with a pen, your left hand inevitably rubs across your freshly written text, turning the bottom of your hand black or blue or whatever color you're using. Over the years, I've probably soaked up 20 or 30 gallons of ink through my hand. This can't be good for you. Eventually, this has to damage your internal organs or something, doesn't it? This could easily account for left-handers living a full decade less than their right-handed brethren.

It is somewhat amazing to me that none of my children is left-handed. But then again, I have three siblings and I'm the only one who uses "le droit gauche." My dad was also left-handed, but he grew up in the 1930s and somewhere along the way he was forced to switch from his left hand to his right. This was, you will note, after he had already learned to write. I can't imagine how hard that must have been.

Left-handers often like to point out famous people who are also southpaws, a list that includes two of the last three U.S. presidents (Obama and Clinton), Judy Garland, Hugh Jackman, Peter Graves, Matthew Broderick, and Angelina Jolie, among others.

You know who was right-handed? Every other famous person in the history of the universe. So I'm not exactly sure what we get so excited about.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
HERE'S THE FAVOR I'D LIKE TO ASK YOU ON BEHALF OF CHRIS. I'LL LET HIM EXPLAIN IT IN HIS OWN WORDS:

Hi everyone! 

I have a video in the University of Dayton’s "What's Your Point" video scholarship contest. To be in the running for the scholarship, I need to be one of the top ten who receive the most votes.

Can you please help me? Everyone is allowed to vote once per week for the next four weeks, and I'll be flooding Facebook with this link, and I can remind everyone if they need! 

(To find my video, take this link:

https://www.facebook.com/universityofdayton?sk=app_385906548153206

First, LIKE the University’s page. Then hit "vote now", then "sort by name" and make sure the arrow is pointing up because it sorts by first name. I'm in the fifth row down, all the way on the left.)

Also, I need this video to go as viral as possible: Can you please share this (by posting the link and my name) to as many other people as you can? Instructions to vote for me are also available on the YouTube video description (Search: Christopher Warneka “What’s Your Point?” video), so if it’s easier to share that as well by all means please do! (I just need people to know to see the instructions to vote for me, so please mention that the description is very important!)

I have over 500 friends on Facebook. If you each vote for me (a whopping four times maximum- once per week, I promise I’m not asking for much of your time) and show the video to someone that can do the same, this video can get me closer to being at the University of Dayton in no time!

Thank you so much for anything you can do to help me!
-Chris

P.S. If you like me, think of this as helping me out! If you DON’T like me, think of it as helping yourself be assured that you won’t see me for about the next four years! 

P.S.S. If you are not interested in voting/helping me; please let me know right away so that I don’t send you weekly reminders about this contest. I really hope nobody feels this way though! 

The return of five random thoughts on a Friday

(1) When my job went bye-bye, so did my newspaper subscription. Consequently, I have no idea what "sequestration" is and why everyone's talking about it. I do so much else online that you'd think getting my news there would be natural, but I can't get out of the newspaper paradigm. I really like holding sheets of newsprint in front of me in the morning. Eventually I'll adapt. But for now, I'm an old fogey.

(2) I just looked out my window and saw Hound Dog Guy and Relentlessly Waddling Lady pass by. These two (whom I assume are husband and wife) often walk up and down my street, and I used to see them frequently on my morning runs. Not anymore, though, as I run earlier in the day and finish long before they're out. I've been running regularly for about 15 years, and in that time I've given names to many of the neighborhood characters I encounter. I used to run past Cologne Guy in the morning, and the smell of his English Leather was actually quite pleasant. There was also Ridiculously Tan Woman and May or May Not Be Psychotic Guy. Hound Dog Guy, incidentally, derives his name from the fact that he walks his dog a lot, and at one point we thought it was a hound dog. It's not, as it turns out, but the name persists.

(3) I have yet to hear of: (a) a man who has an account on Pinterest, and (b) anything on Pinterest that would be remotely appealing to a man. I'm sure there are guys on there and they "pin" things that aren't related to crafts or fashion or whatever. It's just that I don't know any of them.

(4) The mention of English Leather above reminded me that I haven't had any cologne or after shave of my own in at least two years. I started wearing fragrances in high school, when Terry bought me a bottle of Polo. I liked Polo. I also liked Drakkar Noir, which was popular in the 90s, but Terry didn't, so I didn't wear it. When you're a married man or otherwise spoken for by a woman, your choice of manly aromas is not your own. This may or may not be a good thing.

(5) When I was in elementary school, I used to come home every day for lunch. My mom would have my food waiting for me and serve it to me on a TV tray. I would say thank you, but I don't think I ever really appreciated how awesome that was until...well, until just now when I typed it out. So I'll say it again, and this time it's heartfelt: Thanks, Mom. Those lunches were great.

Five reasons I would have a hard time being a woman

(1) You have to have nice handwriting: There are exceptions to this, of course, but they're relatively few and far between. Why is it that the vast majority of women have such nice handwriting? Do they work on it more in school? Is it genetic? My handwriting is terrible (or, as my buddy Chas Withers once put it, "your penmanship is atrocious"), so I'm jealous of anyone who writes neatly. Which means I'm jealous of roughly half the planet. That's not a good place to be.

(2) You're expected to wear funky shoes with unnatural heels: Who decreed that women are supposed to balance themselves on heels that are four inches high and a quarter-inch wide? I'm certain it was a man, and I'm certain he did it as a joke just to see how many women he could fool into actually trying it. Then, when the whole thing blew up and became a fashion trend, he was too embarrassed to admit he was kidding in the first place. I'll bet he laughs when he's on his way to the bank to cash another royalty check and sees a woman tottering down the street on one of his inventions.

(3) There are periodic biological occurrences that would annoy me to an amazing degree: You know what I'm talking about. Ugh.

(4) You don't make as much money: Not that I'm all about the dollars or anything, but it's hard to ignore the fact that, statistically, women don't make as much money as men. The figures vary from 77 cents on the dollar on the low end to as high as 91 cents if you control for various factors such as the fact that men tend to be over-represented in highly dangerous (and therefore higher-paying) jobs. If I was an ovary-bearing person, it wouldn't be so much about the money for me as it would be about the principle. I would get angry just thinking about it. Incidentally, there are those who would argue vehemently against the existence of this wage gap. I have heard their arguments and have yet to find any merit to them. But then again I'm no economist. And even if I was, I would make more money than female economists. Boys win! Boys win!

(5) The law says you cannot legally bash someone in the face with a hammer: There are jerks everywhere. And they represent both genders. But for whatever reason, women have to put up with a lot more from the male jerk population than vice-versa. Which I have to believe means I would be angry a lot of the time if I went through life as a woman. My instinct would be to hurt someone (I'm not proud of that, mind you), but for whatever reason, there is no provision in most local ordinance books for inflicting debilitating injury upon a deserving man-jerk. Ergo, my assumption is that women are in a constant state of checking themselves from committing first-degree felonies. That's gotta be tough...

Boosting the confidence of your less-confident kids

I have five children, and they have five different personalities. Which is good, really. It would be boring to have five little carbon copies running around the house (NOTE: If you don't know what carbon copies are, I'm going to dock you 10 points for making me feel old. Here's an explanation.)

Anyway, if there's one thing the majority of my kids share, it's healthy self-esteem. Terry and I have always tried to foster in them a strong sense of their own unique abilities and positive character traits.

I would say that's true of 80% of my kids. (For you humanities majors, I should explain that means 4 of the 5.)

The holdout is Melanie. Or "little Melanie," as I've always called her. She's 12 now and taller than a lot of her friends, so the "little" part is misleading. It stems from the five-year period in which Mel was the baby of the family before Jack was born. I always think of her as "little Melanie."

Melanie is a wonderfully talented, smart, beautiful girl. She is already an accomplished musician, actor and soccer goalkeeper, and one of those kids for whom the sky is very obviously the limit.

Not that Mel used to believe any of that about herself. For a long time, she was held back by the belief that she wasn't very good at anything. This is common in a significant subset of kids, but as I explained in a post last week, it's especially common in girls.

Try as we might to convince Melanie of her own worth, she would consistently doubt herself. At one point, Terry was actually making her repeat this self-validating mantra: "I am a smart, beautiful, confident woman." Really. She would have Mel say it aloud five or 10 times in a row in the hope that the child would start to believe it.

I've noticed over the last several months, ever since Melanie entered the 6th grade, that her confidence seems to be on the upswing, which is a relief. She still doesn't have a real sense for just how good she is (and will be) at a lot of things, but I think she's trending in the right direction.

Which brings me to today's question: How do you go about boosting the confidence of kids who, for whatever reason, don't really believe in themselves? It took us awhile to figure it out with Melanie, but let me suggest five approaches that may work:

(1) Let them know they're worthy...and they're loved

I was a parent for quite a long time before I realized just how impactful the things we say to our kids can be. Sting penned this line in a song about the death of his father: "...this indifference was my invention, when everything I did sought your attention." There's a lot of truth there. Yes, young people are very much influenced by their peers. But ultimately, it's the words of our parents that stick with us the longest. As often as possible, they need to be positive words of affirmation.

(2) But don't go overboard

The thing is, kids are smart enough to know the difference between genuine, heartfelt praise and sugar-coated platitudes. They do need constructive criticism when it's warranted. Don't feel like you have to laud them 75 times a day for every little thing they do ("Good job flushing the toilet, Johnny!")

(3) Play to their strengths

Almost invariably, your child will gravitate toward the things at which she shows some level of ability or aptitude. This is natural (you do it, too). To the extent you can, encourage them to pursue these interests at higher and higher levels. This not only creates a sense of accomplishment, it also helps them figure out what they might want to do with their lives once they leave your house. And trust me, one day they will actually leave.

(4) Challenge them

At the same time, the kid has to learn how to fail. Losing is as important (and I might argue more important) as winning when you're growing up. Life's tough. They either learn to accept that fact now or they grow up to be whiny, dependent, reactive people. Ironically, the better they learn to handle failure, the more confident they'll become. I'm not quite sure how or why that works, but it does.

(5) Create a safe, loving home environment. Kids who don’t feel safe or loved at home are at the greatest risk for developing poor self-esteem (and therefore low self-confidence). If a child doesn't see his/her home as a safe haven in which family members are supportive, encouraging and understanding, they're going to be less willing to take risks or try new things. Like most things, it all starts at home. And you as the parent are the one who sets the tone there. Don't ever forget that.

"The Biggest Loser" is the roadside accident of television

As I've mentioned before, I don't get the chance to watch a lot of TV. I have nothing philosophical against it, I just don't have the time.

Even during my two-plus months of unemployment, there have always been freelance articles to work on, kids activities to attend, household cleaning and chores to take care of, and (lately) blog posts to write. Not a lot of time to sit in front of the flat screen and chill out.

But there are certain things I make a point of watching. And "The Biggest Loser" is one of them.

I love "The Biggest Loser." So does most of my family. It's one of the few shows we'll DVR and watch together.

If you ask me why I love this program so much, I'll hesitate. Because I'm not really sure what it is that attracts me. I like seeing people transform their lives. I like the drama and the competition. And I can certainly relate to the weight loss aspect of it these days.

But if I'm being honest with myself, I will say the thing that mesmerizes me is the emotional aspect of the show. Yes, what the contestants are doing (attempting to lose mass amounts of weight in a relatively short period of time) is ostensibly a biological undertaking. They're constantly working out. They're changing their eating habits.

Yet there is always an underlying psycho-emotional story for everyone on the show. And the producers do their best to exploit that. It makes for good TV when the 25-year-old, 450-pound woman breaks down and starts talking about the thought patterns and habits that have gotten her to the point of diabetes, coronary artery disease, and a host of other health problems.

I always feel like I'm prying when they show these emotional swan dives on the air. Like it's something I'm not supposed to see and I should be looking away.

But I can't help it. I stare at the screen the same way I would stare at an accident in which body parts are strewn across an expressway. Part of you knows you don't want to get involved, but another part is incapable of disengaging.

We do that, I think, because it makes us feel better about ourselves. "I may be 20 pounds overweight, but at least I'm not like HIM," we'll think. But for me, it's also because I'm looking for a reason to root for these people, and I'm much more likely to wave the flag for someone who has legitimate emotional issues that manifest themselves in overeating. I want them to do well. I want them to get better. I want them to win.

There's another part of "The Biggest Loser" that makes me uncomfortable, and that's the amount of weight these contestants lose. It's one thing to drop double-digit pounds your first week or two on the ranch. It's another to keep losing that much weight nine or 10 weeks later.

Is that healthy? I know they're under medical supervision and that they devote their daily lives to exercise and diet. But it creates an incredibly unrealistic expectation among viewers who may not know the basics of healthy weight loss.

I hear it among people at my Weight Watchers meetings all the time. "Yeah," someone will say, "I only lost three pounds this week. It was kind of disappointing." WHAT?!? Disappointing? You should be thrilled at losing three pounds in a week. In fact, if anything, you should worry that you're losing the weight too quickly if you lose three pounds several weeks in a row.

I have to say, it has taken me years to learn this, but a half-pound or one-pound weight loss per week is ideal. Both emotionally and physically. The hardest thing for me about losing weight is not adjusting my approach to food, but rather adjusting my expectations of the results. Slow and steady is far, far, FAR more likely to result in sustained, long-term weight loss than rapidly dropping the pounds.

Which, again, I think is a lesson not being taught to "Biggest Loser" fans who may not have done the homework themselves or who are rookies in the weight loss game. No, ma'am, you are NOT going to drop 11 pounds this coming week like Gina, the middle-aged contestant who has already lost 83 pounds in the previous two months. Nor SHOULD you.

But still, I watch. And I will continue watching. As with any reality show, you quickly identify your favorites and start pulling for them. I want all of them to do well.

I just wish I didn't care so much about the fact that their mothers fed them unhealthy food their whole lives or that the four miscarriages caused them to go on eating binges. It's interesting information, but I can't help but think it's none of my business.

Learning a dead language for no good reason

I'm teaching myself Latin. By reading a book. The book is called "Latin for Dummies." I'm doing it because I thought Greek would be too hard.

Everything in that first paragraph is true. Or, as our ancient Romans friends would have said, "Omnia in illa prima paragraph verum est." I think. My Latin isn't very good yet.

I do a lot of things that no one else would bother doing. Learning Latin from a book is one. Walking 17 miles to work is another. Rooting for the Cleveland Browns is yet another.

None of those activities has a useful purpose, which is why I do them. I remember useless stuff. I engage in useless pastimes. I think about useless things. I am completely useless (or again, as a native Latin speaker would say, "Ego sum prorsus inutilis.")

The problem I'm finding with Latin is that it seems to have little connection with English in terms of word order and verb conjugation. That's probably not entirely true, but I'm early in the learning process and my head is spinning trying to figure out stuff like cases and declensions.

"Latin for Dummies" tries its best to give you Latin phrases you might actually find useful, but that's the problem with a dead language: There are no useful phrases. I don't foresee running into one of the Caesars any time soon, so whatever knowledge I gain in this process is going to be gained for the sake of....well, knowledge.

This is an actual sample conversation offered up on pages 68 and 69 of "Latin for Dummies" (I am not, I assure you, making this up):


PATER (father):  Nepos noster uxorem cupit. ("Our grandson wishes for a wife.")

MATER (mother): Pater filio puellam aptam inveniet. ("His father will find his son a suitable girl.")

PATER: Era difficile fratri meo ubi coniugem filiae suae petebat. ("It was difficult for my brother when he was seeking a husband for his daughter.")

MATER: Sed fratris tui filia est non pulchra! ("But your brother's daughter is not pretty!")

PATER: Screw-us you-us! ("I disagree!") (NOTE: This last line is one that I may actually have made up.)


I'm trying to think of a situation in which knowing these sentences would be useful in any language.

Because that's the general problem with language instruction, isn't it? They teach you all kinds of vocabulary and phrases that are, like me, useless.

I took 14 years of French instruction. That's right, 14 years. Everyone in my school took it from 1st through 6th grade, then most of us continued on in middle school, and a dwindling number continued on through high school.

During my senior year, there were two of us (me and Michelle Dillard) who took the comically unnecessary French V. It wasn't even a class offered during regular school hours. I had to come in at 6:30 on Thursday mornings to take it (by myself...Michelle did it at a separate time) with Madame Whitehorn, a saint of a woman who put up with the 98% of kids who didn't care at all for French to enjoy teaching the 2% who did.

Anyway, I went on to take a few semesters more from the Jesuits at John Carroll University, who at least had the decency to offer up a native French speaker (Monsieur Aube, an aging and hilarious French-Canadian) to teach those of us who tested into 300-level French.

My point is, through all those years of French, I learned maybe four or five things that had any practical value. And by "practical value," I mean stuff I could actually use if I spent any amount of time in Paris.

The French textbooks refused to impart this type of knowledge on us. Instead, they focused on unrealistic classroom situations in which everyone asked for pencils, erased blackboards, and opened and closed doors and windows. And that was about it.

I spent nine hours in Paris once, and not once did I have a need to erase any blackboards or ask anyone for a pencil. I did open and close a few doors, but I didn't bother to inform the Parisians of my door-swinging intentions.

Here are five things that WOULD have been useful to know in French during my short time in Paris, had I figured out how to say them:

(1) "Wait, you're an old woman and you're going to stay here in the men's room cleaning while I stand over there and pee?"

(2) "Really?"

(3) "Because it's awfully hard to pee with you in the room."

(4) "I'm just saying."

(5) "I've missed the last train back to my hotel in London? Is there a particular patch of sidewalk where you would suggest I sleep tonight while I wait for the first train tomorrow morning?"

By the way, I was going to render one of those suggested French sentences in Latin, just to continue the ongoing joke and all. And I realized there was no way I would know the Latin for "pee," so I looked in a Latin dictionary. It turns out the word for "urinate" is "micturio." Finally, something useful!

Cats vs Dogs - Let's Call It A Draw

I am neither a cat person nor a dog person. I'm a cog person. Or a dat person, if you prefer.

What I'm trying to say is, I like them both. I grew up with dogs, now I own cats. Four cats, to be exact. I thought we had capped the number at three, but a month or two ago, along came Bert.

Bert is an angry-looking gray cat that is actually about the sweetest little guy you'll ever hope to meet. He was rescued from near-death in a combined effort by Elissa, Terry and Chloe.

Elissa was driving near our house on a cold and snowy night when she saw this bedraggled cat sitting essentially in the middle of Eddy Road, which is one of those dark, narrow and hilly streets on which animals of all sorts are regularly run down.

Being Elissa, she stopped her car and got out to try and save the cat from being squashed by a Buick and/or from losing some key paws to frostbite. Scared by another passing car, the cat ran under Elissa's car and stayed there. Elissa called her mother to come and help, and Terry managed to get the cat out from under the car and safely back to our house, where he enjoyed warmth and abundant food for probably the first time in weeks.

As soon as he came home, I knew he was there to stay. Elissa had to go back to school, so Chloe immediately took charge of his care. The first thing she did was to dub the cat "Bert."

This caused a bit of a kerfuffle in the family partly because "Bert" is, by almost any standard, a strange name for a cat, but mostly because it's not a name that appears in the Harry Potter books.

The policy we've adopted in recent years is to name pets, particularly cats, after Harry Potter characters. And specifically members of the Weasley family. Our pre-existing cats − Fred, George and Charlie − all followed this useful convention.

But because Chloe devoted so much time and energy to nursing Bert back to health in his early days with us, the grudging consensus was that she should have naming rights. And so "Bert" it is.

Anyway, as I was saying, I don't count myself a member of either the dog camp or the cat camp. I just like animals in general, which is good in a house with four cats, two chinchillas, a guinea pig, a gecko lizard and a fish. Or at least I think we have a fish. There are pets that will live here for months at a time without my knowledge of their existence.

There are lots of reasons to love dogs. Off the top of my head:

- They're insanely loyal and devoted to you.
- They do tricks.
- They generally aim to please.
- They take care of their bodily functions outside.

That last point is key for me. I am the designated cat litter box cleaner in our house. I do this job every day. Every. Single. Day. Without fail. It's one of the first things I do when I get out of bed. And while not a particularly arduous job, I can never get away from it.

This is why I was the only one who raised any real objections to the idea of keeping Bert. His presence wasn't going to affect anyone else in the family like it would affect me. Needless to say, my opinions were officially registered for the record and summarily dismissed.

Still, I really have come to love cats over the years. They do, as a species, tend to believe they're superior to you in every way. But they're also much more affectionate than they're generally given credit for. And they're great for entertainment when they interact in little cat herds. There's always an alpha male who establishes himself as head cat honcho.

The title of alpha male is currently up for grabs among our cats. Before Bert, Charlie was the clear-cut Big Guy. He ruled the roost, and he did so in a comical way, keeping Fred and George on their toes by constantly jumping on them, biting them when they weren't looking, swatting at them as they passed by, etc.

Bert has submitted his application for the position, though. And Charlie is not happy about it. The two of them have fought a couple of times, but it has been pretty low-key. Almost like they're feeling each other out. Superior size and an "I don't sweat guys like you" attitude will probably mean Bert eventually comes away the victor.

Speaking of dominance, what I don't get is why dog owners and cat people feel the need to establish their choice as the "right" one. This is an ongoing, eternal battle in which everyone involved comes away looking a little...obsessed. And maybe a tad psychotic.

Can we just agree that whatever pet you choose to own (dog, cat, fish, elk, spider monkey, etc.), it does nothing to enhance or diminish your status as a good person and respectable citizen? Is that OK? Good. I'm glad that's settled. I was afraid you crazy dog people would be your usual weird, obstinate selves and mess the whole thing up.

This is my wish for you

My wife just walked into the room as I was sitting at the computer, and I smiled.

It took me a second to realize I was smiling. Then it took me another second to realize why I was smiling.

And that made me smile even more.

I am blessed beyond measure in my life. I have an incredibly long list of things for which to be thankful.

Right near the top is that I have someone who makes me smile just by the mere fact that she's there in the same room.

Apart from virtually anything to do with my kids, the only other time I smile spontaneously out of simple joy is with giddy anticipation in the seconds before the opening faceoff of a hockey game. I realize this says more about me than I would care for you to know, but there you go.

Regardless, here's what I hope you'll do:

If you have someone in your life whose mere presence is enough to make you happy, be actively thankful for that person.

If you don't have someone who fits that description right now, understand they're on their way into your life. I believe that wholeheartedly. It may take them awhile to get there, but they're coming. And they'll be just as glad to see you as you'll be to see them.

I'm smiling as I type this.

One way to save your children from having YOU as a parent

I don't have many theories about raising children, mostly because I'm pretty much winging it as I go. I've been winging it for close to 19 years. And so far none of my kids have:

(a) committed a felony (or at least there have been no convictions)
(b) lost their lives while under my care
(c) been abducted by a man in a windowless white van

These are my criteria for parenting success. I'm not sure I'm capable of much more.

Which is why, as I often say, Terry cannot die. Well, eventually she CAN die. I have no say over that. But it absolutely must not happen in the next 15 years, because she's the one who instills actual values into our children and teaches them practical stuff.

My role, other than to eventually get another job and resume my duties as Chief Provider, is to teach them things like:

- Why hockey was meant to be played 4 on 4
- Why the 3,000-mile oil change is a scam
- Why 1983 was the greatest year in the history of music
- Why you need to pour milk into a cereal bowl in a certain way such that every single piece of cereal gets milk on it BEFORE you start eating. This is vitally important.
- Why you should never put your hand on the table.

Regarding that last point, I'm thinking it has been covered before in this blog, hasn't it? Hold on a second while I go and check...

Ah, yes, this tradition of mine was described in a post last April (see point #8). In case you have no desire to click on that link (and honestly, I wouldn't be that motivated if I were you), I've been doing this thing with the kids since they were little in which I try to get them to put their hands flat on the kitchen table. When they do, I pound their hand − hard − and say, "NEVER put your hand on the table!"

Why, you wonder? And I ask, "why not?" It's to the point that I have to trick them into actually putting their hands on the table, and I'm lucky if I can get even one of them to do it in the space of a year. They're clearly on to me.

But every once in awhile I'll put on a stern face when one of our offspring is sitting at the table and say, "Did you spill milk here? I can't believe you spilled your milk." And the kid will indignantly say, "I didn't spill my milk! What are you talking about?" And I'll rub the table and say, "Well, then, why is it so sticky here?"

And then, if the stars align just right and the child forgets who they're talking to, they'll get an annoyed look on their face and rub the spot I show them. And in the space of 8 milliseconds, my fist will come crashing down onto their hand and I will triumphantly remind them NEVER TO PUT THEIR HAND ON THE TABLE.

This is the greatest feeling in the world, and it actually teaches them a valuable lesson: Namely, that you can't trust ANYONE in the world, not even your crazy father. Maybe especially your crazy father.

The point is, I clearly won't be writing a parenting book any time soon. And if I do, it will be called "Never Put Your Hand on the Table: And Other Things I've Tried to Teach My Poor Children." It won't sell well, but I'll be a hero to dads across the world who make it their mission in life to show kids the value of pain.

Still, I will say this: If I have learned anything from nearly two decades of dad-dom, it is the value of confidence in a child. You cannot, in my view, overestimate the value of a child's self-worth.

Now, before you conservative types get your panties in a bunch, please understand that I'm not talking about the cheap, feel-good brand of self-esteem our society so often tries to pump into kids these days. I'm not for everyone getting a trophy, no score being kept (in most circumstances), etc. etc. etc.

I'm talking about the very real benefits of simply helping a kid believe they're worth something. And that they can do whatever (realistic) task set before them.

I think there's value in doing this for every kid, but especially girls. I coach a lot of girls sports, and I've found this unfortunate fragility that creeps into the psyche of female athletes starting at about the age of 10 and often lasting well into their teenage years (and beyond).

You have to be very careful how you deal with them. Criticism absolutely needs to be offered in a positive, constructive way. This is not to say they're not tough. They absolutely are (and vicious, too...I'm telling you, girls soccer games are as rough as any football game in which I ever played).

But Lord knows these girls are bombarded daily with the not-so-subtle message that they're not good enough. They're not skinny enough, they're not pretty enough, they're not smart enough, and on and on and on. They don't need to be beaten down on the athletic field, too. They should feel empowered by sports.

That doesn't mean I won't be tough on them. I will. I'll let you know if you're not playing to your potential. You can't help lack of natural ability, but you most certainly can help lack of effort.

Ultimately, though, these girls need to hear five positive things for every one negative. And the "negative" shouldn't even be negative as much as a guideline for improvement. Yes, one day they'll need to be ready to deal with a tough boss, and yes, we need to prepare them for the roller coaster ride of life.

But to my way of thinking, the way we do that in these adolescent years is to build a base of self-confidence that will naturally breed toughness, strength of character, and all of that other Girl Scout stuff that actually means something in life.

So I take every opportunity I can to praise my daughters. I do it with my sons, too, but I don't think they're fighting the same battles as my girls.

And besides, my boys instinctively KNOW a 2005 Honda Accord can go 5,000 miles before it's time to change the oil...

Apparently I'm supposed to hate the snow

I have lived my entire life in Northeast Ohio. More specifically, I have lived my entire life in one small city in Northeast Ohio.

You can say a lot of things both good and bad about the place I call home. But the one thing out-of-towners always mention is the snow. And they don't say it in a kind way.

"Cleveland? Oh....You guys get a lot of snow, don't you?"

Yes, I suppose we do. The annual snowfall totals vary drastically (less than 40 inches some years, over 100 others), but the average is about 57 inches a year. Multiply that by 43 (my age), and you get roughly 2,450 inches of snow that have fallen here in my lifetime. That's more than 200 feet. That's a lot of snow.

And I love it.

Very rarely do you hear me complain about snow. I am a graduate of the school of thought that says, "It's Cleveland. In February. Snow is going to fall. If you don't like it, go someplace else."

A lot of people do just that. It's fashionable for Ohioans to head south in the early months of the year. Some even have winter homes down in Florida, where they flee for several weeks until the snow (mostly) goes away, then they return.

These are not, in my estimation, real Ohioans. At best they're honorary members of the state. You're an Ohioan - and more to the point, a Clevelander - only if you stick it out winter after winter. Anyone can live here in July when it's 80 degrees every day and we get relatively small amounts of rainfall. That's enjoyable. But if you scurry off to Tampa at the first flakes, then you're not really one of us. Sorry, that's just the way it is.

Our precipitation totals are padded every year by what meteorologists call "lake effect snow." It has something to do with the moisture from the relatively warm lake being swept up into the atmosphere and adding a few inches to every snowfall.

But honestly, we still don't get nearly as much snow as they do three hours east in Buffalo or the rest of upstate New York. Syracuse averages 115 inches a year. When we get that much (which is rare), we act like we've survived a nuclear holocaust.

The snow really only affects my life in two ways:

(1) A few times per winter, it makes my drive to work (you know, when I actually am working) a little slower

(2) About 10 times per winter, I have to go outside and snowblow and/or shovel it away

And really, that's about it. I don't think that's too much of a reason to complain. But complain we do. Oh my goodness, people here whine and moan about snow like it's some completely new and entirely unexpected climatic phenomenon. Can you believe it? FROZEN WATER FALLING FROM THE SKY? WHAT?!? NO ONE SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THAT!

I get especially annoyed by people who used to live here and post snarky comments on Facebook like "It's 85 degrees here in Phoenix! Hope you Ohioans are enjoying the ice and snow!"

Guess what? I am enjoying the ice and snow. And I really don't care how warm it is in Arizona. Or Florida. Or South Carolina. Or whatever southeastern and/or Sun Belt state you moved to. I've chosen to live here. I have the means to live virtually anywhere I want, but I want to live here. I like it here. It's nice here.

Because it really is. Cleveland is a great place to live, despite what you may have heard. The people are friendly, the change of seasons is enjoyable, the amenities are nice, etc. I've traveled to a lot of different places, and I've liked nearly all of them. But you couldn't pay me to live anywhere else.

Yet societal expectations dictate that I should complain about a weather pattern that established itself here centuries ago and is not likely to drastically change anytime soon (even with the warmer winters we've been experiencing). It is what it is, people. Deal with it.

My, my, I am cranky today, aren't I? Must be the cold and snow that's making me irritable...

Don't worry, I probably can't beat you at SongPop

Do you know this game SongPop? It's an app that people play on their phones. I guess you could play it on your desktop computer, too, but I have yet to meet anyone who does it that way.

I own a smartphone, but generally I'm not a big "app guy." I should be. I mean, there are lots and lots and lots and LOTS of free apps that are cool and useful. And the ones I do have are great. But I don't go to the app store and just shop around or anything like that.

I did, however, download SongPop. And I love it. The idea is that you listen to snippets of songs and try to identify them (or the artist who recorded them) as quickly as possible. You get points for doing this, and you go one-on-one against another person to see who can get the highest score from a set of five songs.

This appeals to me for three reasons:

(1) I love music

(2) I love games

(3) I'm inordinately competitive

The thing is, I'm not a SongPop genius or anything. I win about as often as I lose, which makes me the SongPop equivalent of almost every Cleveland sports team I've ever rooted for. But I still enjoy the game and make a point of playing it at least once a day.

I have a small circle of people I play against. Most of them are pretty good at SongPop, but none is as good as my nephew Mark. Mark is the New York Yankees of SongPop players (NOTE: This analogy would have worked better a few years ago when the Yankees were actually good. I wanted to say "the Montreal Canadiens of SongPop," but only my hardcore hockey fan friends whose memories extend back to the 70s would have any idea what I was talking about).

Anyway, Mark is really good at SongPop. To the point that part of me thinks he's cheating. He not only guesses every tune correctly, he does it in an average of something like 1.2 seconds. And some of his answers happen in less than a second. I can't process the song in less than a second, let alone identify the correct answer from the choices given and then select it by touching the screen. This whole sequence takes me an average of, I would say, 3 seconds. Occasionally I get under 2 seconds, but for the most part, I'm slow.

Is this because I'm old? I ask this seriously. Do you start to lose your reflexes and brain processing power in your early 40s? If so, then it's happening to me. I don't mind it so much except that it means I constantly lose to Mark. And to Kathy Ciciretti. And to Mike Pugh. They're all very good at SongPop.

Chris Dorazio is also good at SongPop (EDITOR'S NOTE: Do we need a refresher course here? Since it has been more than half a year since I was regularly blogging and mentioning Chris Dorazio? OK, for those who don't know, Chris Dorazio is my daughter Chloe's boyfriend. He's Vietnamese. But he has an Italian last name. And he juggles. And he is always referred to as "Chris Dorazio." Got that? OK, good. Let's continue.)

Chris Dorazio is good at SongPop. And he plays it a lot. He and I have these really tight games. If one of us finds himself too far behind the other on the weekly scoreboard, we'll select a musical category where we know we have an advantage. I should have mentioned for those who haven't played SongPop that you can select a musical category or genre, and the songs you have to guess will all fall into that category or genre.

Like, for example, if Chris Dorazio wants to stump me, he'll pick "Modern Rap" or "Glee." He knows my knowledge in both of those is lacking, though occasionally I'll get lucky and beat him. If I need to shut him down, I'll go to one of my favorites: 80s Collection or New Wave or Jazz. It becomes a Battle of the Musical Generations.

And let me say this: I actually do know a LITTLE something about modern music and all of that. I have five kids, three of whom are teenagers and one of whom is within a year of becoming a teenager. So I have no choice but to be at least passingly aware of current music. But I never remember who actually sings what.

For instance, there's a rapper named "Flo Rida." His name is pronounced "Flow RIGHTA." But I, being the Clueless Adult, initially looked at the spelling of his name and said "Flow RIDDA," with a short "I" sound. You know, like the state. The child to whom I said this − it may have been Chloe − laughed at me. Derisively. I was so proud.

And there are acronyms involved in modern pop/R&B music that I can't follow. There's a group called LMFAO, right? Or is it ROTFL? There's a hip hop artist called B.o.B. And there's a band called Fun, but they're just plain "Fun," not "F.U.N." Who has time to keep track of all of this? Not even the unemployed, I can tell you that.

There's also the fact − and please understand how much it pains me to say this − that so much of what I hear on the radio these days sounds exactly the same. Like it's the same song just sort of remixed and maybe refashioned with the same synthesizer-based instruments and a slightly different melody. I don't want to think like this, I really don't. It's straight from the Old Guy Playbook, but I can't help it.

Back in my day (April 1986 through June 1987), even the hair band songs were all distinctive! You could tell Ratt apart from Poison in an instant. And the lead singers at least wore different colored lipstick so we could distinguish them from one another, which I always thought was very considerate.

I used to be a pretty ardent follower of popular music. That all changed circa 1991 when the grunge thing came along and I found that, at the age of 21, I was unable to tell Soundgarden from Pearl Jam from Smashing Pumpkins. It happens to everyone eventually, it just happened to me early in life.

So the result is that I sometimes struggle in SongPop. Actually, I usually struggle in SongPop. I always forget the Gangnam Style guy's name. And I get Justin Bieber mixed up with OneDirection − a mortal sin in my daughter Melanie's eyes. But then again she's 12 and, really, what does she know?

She couldn't name every song on Side A of Duran Duran's debut album, which her old man had on cassette circa 1981, that's for sure. Score one for daddy!

There's less and less of me all the time

I am no longer old, fat and ugly. I'm just old and ugly now, which is a relief.

Over the past few months, I've gotten rid of the "fat" part using Weight Watchers. I've dropped 27 or 28 pounds so far (not sure exactly how much...I weigh in tomorrow morning). And while I don't claim to be an underwear model or anything now, I'm at least back down into a healthy weight range, and I intend to stay there.

I'm a big fan of Weight Watchers, though I never say it's the right weight-loss method for everyone. Most people, yes, just not everyone. You have to be willing to figure out point values for foods and to track everything you eat every day. This sounds daunting at first, but for me it quickly becomes second nature.

The thing a lot of people don't get about Weight Watchers is that there are no "restricted" foods. None. You can eat whatever you want. It's just that, as you might expect, calorie-laden foods have higher point values, and you only get so many points in a day/week. So while that 3-pound slice of cake looks delicious, I would only recommend it if you don't plan on eating again until, say, the middle of next summer.

Because that's the thing: No matter how you go about losing weight, ultimately you're going to have to change how you eat. Whether you're counting points or avoiding carbs or following the Mongolian Yak Shepherd Diet, weight loss has always been, and always will be, a matter of calories in vs. calories out. Burn more than you take in and you lose weight. Go the opposite direction and start shopping for pants with exponentially larger waist sizes.

Speaking of which, I'm experiencing one of those problems-you-like-to-have in that half of the clothes I own are, geometrically speaking, now too big for me. Some are only slightly too big, while others are comically large. The last time I lost this much weight, I came into work wearing a black suit that my kind co-worker Jennifer said "makes you look like you're playing dress-up with your daddy's clothes."

And yes, there was a "last time" for me. I started doing Weight Watchers with Terry in 2008 and lost more than 30 pounds in three months. Then I got cocky and thought, "Well, I don't need Weight Watchers to keep the weight off. I can do it myself." And yes, I said it in the exact moronic tone you might expect.

You probably know what comes next: I not only gained the 30 pounds back, I added a few more for good measure! Because I'm just that kind of a thorough guy!

So this time I went back with the intention of not only taking the weight  back off − something at which I'm actually quite good − but learning mentally and physically how to keep it off forever.

I hate to make this comparison because I don't in any way mean to belittle Alcoholics Anonymous, but I liken weight loss to AA: You're never actually "recovered." That is, I need to stay on Weight Watchers or some sustainable form of it for the rest of my life if I hope to remain relatively lean and healthy. I'm too weak and lazy to just "eyeball" foods and limit portion sizes. Given free rein at the buffet table, I would eat everything there...and the table itself.

So once I hit my goal of 185 pounds in another month or two, I plan to keep on attending Weight Watchers meetings and following the program. Forever. I've given a lot of thought as to how that will work, and it's no trivial thing given that I might live another 40 or 50 years. I really think I will not only do this, but do it with no problem. As I've transformed my body over these last few months, I've been striving to do the same with my mind, and I believe I've made real progress there.

By the way, most people think I'm kidding when I say I weigh 190 pounds right now. That's in clothes and shoes, but still, at first glance I don't look to be 190 pounds. That is the blessing and the curse of my family: We wear weight well. I've ALWAYS been heavier than people assumed, which is handy when you're playing that guess-your-weight carnival game but of little use otherwise.

My primary care doc, the wonderful and inspiring Michelle Spech-Holderbaum, says 185 would be a "fantastic" weight for me and that anything under that is getting toward "you look gaunt and old" territory...though as we've established, there's probably no escaping "old" and "ugly" for me. I'm just looking for "relatively non-fat." That would be more than sufficient, thank you.